


sunlight, headlights, wide eyes

by icarxs



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic, Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Multi, The Raven King Spoilers, there is no excuse for this kind of fanservice and I am sorry but also I'm not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6810577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarxs/pseuds/icarxs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neil considered pointing out once more that this had been Andrew’s idea, but let it slide. Instead, he said, “reckon Henrietta has an Exy team?”</p><p>Andrew said, “I’m going to eat you for breakfast.”</p><p>“Yes,” said Neil, and locked the car.</p><p>It was at this point that the Camaro appeared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Neil

**Author's Note:**

> Neil and Andrew bump into Blue, Gansey, and Henry on the road into Henrietta.
> 
> I've read the foxhole court!! I really liked it!! If I didn't capture their voices well I'm sorry, I'm doing a reread soon, I promise.

The Maserati finally ran out of gas half a mile from this small town somewhere in Virginia, engine spitting protests from under the smooth hood.

They weren’t running - Neil had made that very clear when they’d first set out, three days earlier. Running implied permanence of movement. This was just a break - but he’d driven and driven until the gas had run out, and he had that familiar itch under his skin that came from snatched hours of sleep in motel rooms and pit stops, and his skin felt grimy with dust from the road and he knew he was losing himself in the rumble of the wheels underneath him and the seeming endlessness of the late afternoon sky.

Andrew groaned as Neil twisted the wheel and steered them, choking and spluttering, off the tarmac and onto the dry grass roadside. “ _Here_ ?” he said, voice twisting in on itself. “ _Seriously_?”

“This was your bright idea,” Neil reminded him, though mildly, because Andrew likewise hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep since Monday. “Drive until the gas runs out - and here we are.”

“Yeah, in the middle of fucking nowhere,” said Andrew, and got out, slamming the door hard behind him. Neil patted the steering wheel sympathetically, grabbed the map from Andrew’s dashboard, and joined him.

The summer air was still hot; the sun had been beating down onto the grassy verge all day and the night hadn’t yet worked it’s cooling magic. Neil had a bandana wrapped tightly around his head, keeping his hair from his eyes, and he scratched under it aimlessly, settling down with his back comfortably against the back tyre and spreading the map out in front of him. Andrew was standing a way away, taking an angry piss. Neil checked his phone; there was no signal, predictably. He chewed the inside of his cheek. They were more than an hour’s trek from Henrietta, VA. “OI!” Neil yelled, cupped hands against his cheeks. “Feel like a walk?”

“NO!” Andrew shouted back, over his shoulder.

Neil traced the long winding road with his little finger. His nails, clipped short and square, were grey with dirt; he longed for a hot shower and wondered if Henrietta would be large enough to have a nicer-than-terrible hotel. Andrew couldn’t protest to a lie in, not now they’d achieved what he’d wanted - they were miles from anywhere. This was where the wind had taken them.

Neil wasn’t sure why Andrew’s reaction to making Court was to get far, far away from anything to do with Exy, but he understood enough about fight or flight to be grateful that Andrew’s fear response had, for once, been the latter.

The smell of smoke reached Neil on the faint evening breeze. Andrew had found, from somewhere, a long stick not unlike a switch, and was decapitating dry flowers as he made his way back to the car, _swish thwack_ ; the cigarette dangled from his mouth, as though it was too much effort for him to actually hold it. He bent down to offer his mouth to Neil, who took the stick between two fingers; Andrew’s lips had left a slight imprint around the filter. Neil yawned and stretched and heard his shoulders crack, then waved his useless phone in Andrew’s direction.. “It’s a dead zone, we’re gonna have to walk.”

“I hate you.” Andrew flicked the stick at him; it caught him on the ankle, the sting gentle.

“Alright,” Neil replied, amiably. He ground the cigarette out in the dust. The walk looked shorter on the map than it would be in real life; Virginia was like that, and Neil wasn’t looking forward to it even if it was getting towards nightfall. “Have we got water?”

Andrew rummaged around in the back seat. “Some,” he said, voice muffled. “Not enough.” The poor Maserati was looking a little worse for wear, dust and mud splashed up its elegant sides; Neil winced as he stood, tried to stretch the aches out of his legs. Andrew tossed him a bottle of water and he caught it with the unerring reflexes of someone who had trained with Kevin Day. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

Neil considered pointing out once more that this had been Andrew’s idea, but let it slide. Instead, he said, “reckon Henrietta has an Exy team?”

Andrew said, “I’m going to eat you for breakfast.”

“Yes,” said Neil, and locked the car.

It was at this point that the Camaro appeared.

It moved very quietly for a car that size, like a shark, and there was nothing coming out of the exhaust. It was Palmetto State orange and the driver took the bend in the road like they were born to it, leaning into it, easy and casual and fast; Neil caught a glimpse of a tanned hand on the wheel before he was flagging it down; Andrew said, “thank holy mother of fuck.”

The Camaro slowed, swerved. There was a girl in the passenger seat; Neil wasn’t sure if her hair looked like that because she’d had the window down or if it was purposeful. “Are you guys alright?” she asked, Virginian accent, dark skin, white teeth flashing in a grin that was actually a little frightening.

“Out of gas,” grimaced Neil. It sounded so stupid aloud, but it would’ve been even more laughable to say, ‘purposefully out of gas,’ so he stomached the embarrassment. Anyway, the girl had this strange face that said nothing would ever surprise her. The boy driving leant into her space.

“Are you on your way to Henrietta?” he asked.

His accent made Neil’s hackles rise immediately, and suddenly Andrew was there at his shoulder. He was looming in a way that someone who was barely pushing 5’ shouldn’t have been able to do; he said, “in a manner of speaking, sure,” and his voice was threatening enough that Neil pressed a hand to his wrist, over his bands. The boy didn’t even blink.

“I think we’ve got some in the trunk, stay put,” he said, and the girl smiled and rolled up the window. There was a third boy in the backseat, but he had huge headphones on and didn’t look at all interested in them.

The boy pulled the huge car over, parked it in front of the Maserati. Andrew was twitching on his feet; Neil said, “okay?”

“He sounds like an asshole.”

“He’s probably fine.”

Neil knew exactly what he meant, though. The guy both sounded and looked like an asshole; he was wearing a deep blue polo and when he shut the door of the Camaro Neil watched the sun kiss his bronze curls like he was meant to be here, like it was saying hello. He knocked on the back window as he passed, an alert. He said, “I’m Gansey, nice to meet you.”

He had a firm handshake. Neil felt like he was being recruited, he said, “Neil Josten,” and felt his name fill his mouth like a protest. “This is Andrew.”

“Blue,” said the girl. She was in high-rise, tie-dye denim shorts and a slashed up t-shirt that might have once been Madonna merchandise.

“Wait!” came an exclamation from the Camaro. The third boy - all three of them couldn’t have been older than nineteen - clambered out of the car, all long limbs. He stumbled a little on the rough ground; the girl smirked at his enthusiasm. He said, “Neil _Josten_ ? Like - shit, are you _the_ Neil Josten?”

Andrew’s looming diminished just a little bit; he took half a step away from Neil’s shoulder and began examining his nails, a study in boredom. “Sure,” said Neil, blinking.

“Oh my God,” the boy said, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a surge, accented, jagged. “I am the _biggest_ fan. Last season against the Bombers - the best match I’ve _ever_ seen.”

Gansey was frowning. He said, confusedly, “are we talking about sports?” as though it was blasphemous to do so here, under the wide Henrietta sky.

“ _Exy_ ,” breathed the nameless boy, and just like that, Neil liked him.

“That’s the one with the racquets, right?” said Blue. The corner of her mouth winged up into a triumphant smile when the boy took the bait, whirling on her with long arms flailing, a picture of appalled, offended pride.

“‘The one with the racquets’?” he repeated, horrified. “The one with the - are you hearing this? Third, are you hearing this? The one with the racquets, she says - as if Exy could be characterised as just ‘the one with the racquets’ -”

“Technically it’s not an inaccurate description,” said Andrew, without looking up from his nails.

“See!” cried Blue, pointing at him.

Neil grinned and offered his hand to the boy, whose eyes were wide with awe. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said.

“Henry Cheng,” responded the boy, smiling broadly. “Neil Josten and Andrew Minyard, in Henrietta - what are the odds?”

Andrew had stiffened at the sound of his name; much like Neil, the concept that people recognised him set him on edge. Neil was mostly immune now, especially to enthusiasm like this, but the long hours in the car had obviously grated on Andrew’s ragged edges. Henry didn’t seem to notice; he said, “Gansey, did you plan this?”

“How could I have planned this?” Gansey laughed. His expression was oddly soft for a moment when he looked at Henry, it made him more likeable, less like he deserved to be framed and printed. “Unfortunately my powers don’t stretch to conjuring sports stars out of the ether. You’d need Lynch for that.”

“Diesel?” asked Blue, rolling her eyes at him, probably at his use of the word _ether_. “We’ve got a can in the trunk.”

“That’s perfect, thank you,” Neil said, by rote, easy. He nudged Andrew in the ribs until he rolled his eyes and followed her, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he went.

“You’re lucky we came along,” Gansey said. He leant back against the hood of the Maserati and everything about him, from the perfect crease in his chinos to the crisp collar of his polo, made him look like the owner of the car, like it was his birthright instead of Andrew’s. It made Neil bristle, but he forced himself to keep his face neutral. “It’s a bad place to break down, this.”

Henry made an odd noise, a noise of realisation. He said, “I _thought_ this looked familiar - !”

Gansey shrugged at him, a shrug of long acquaintance and shared history, and said to Neil, “the Pig’s not the most reliable of cars.”

“The Pig?” Neil echoed, amused despite himself.

Gansey gestured to the car. “She’s old.”

“Good condition, though,” said Henry, and again, there it was, the shared joke. Swiftly he changed the subject. “I heard you made Court!”

“Oh,” said Neil, scuffing his foot in the dirt. “Yeah, we did.” Henry was almost glowing with excitement, but Neil’s thoughts were snagged on Gansey’s strange comment, on the silence of the Pig’s engine, on _bad place to break down_ \- he said, “this is a common place to break down, then?”

“Not really,” said Gansey. “We’re unlucky.”

But the way he looked at Henry and Blue said otherwise.


	2. Gansey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blue said, “Gansey, are you internally monologuing? You’re wearing your internal monologue face.”
> 
> “Shut up,” said Gansey, and took the turn down the lane that led to the Barns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally!! an update!! apologies, my life has been hectic and I find it hard to write on demand.
> 
> they will meet again next chapter. lunch will occur. there is no plotline here, I just like the post-TRK relationships (post The Raven King from both series, ironically).
> 
> I would also like to add that I've realised my timeline for this is IMMENSELY skewed and I might be editing any references to timeframes in the near future so that it actually makes sense. ciao

They left with a promise, forcibly extracted by Henry from Josten with a mixture of charm and guilt, of lunch the following day - Josten, a compact map of scars, seemed to be actually enjoying talking to him, or was perhaps just an excellent liar. Gansey was pretty certain that Minyard was armed under those bands of his, but they’d all been practicing with the Grey Man and he was relatively sure that Blue could disarm him if the moment called for it. There was this strange confidence about him that made Gansey want to keep him in sight.

It was weird that their car had broken down on the spot where Gansey had died. He didn’t say anything aloud, but Blue kept looking at him with that expression that was like a non-verbal nudge, like, _did you notice that? Weird, right_. It _was_ weird, but then again, so was Gansey nowadays.

Henrietta welcomed them back like they’d never left. Gansey tuned out Henry’s excited chattering in the back and let his hands take them through the turns purely on muscle memory, the town unfurling in front of him like a flower. Blue flickered next to him, first turned to the back to join the conversation, next opening the window and shaking her hair out in the breeze, then unscrewing the lid of her thermos flask of coffee and examining the contents, reaching for the radio, skipping stations like a stone - her presence was constant and comforting. Sometimes Gansey’s mind was so full it was like Blue was the only anchor to reality.

Henry leant forward and rested his chin on the back of Gansey’s chair.

“You called ahead, right?” he said.

Gansey looked at Blue. Blue said, “I’m not your fucking secretary, Gansey.”

“They could be doing _anything_.”

Gansey huffed. “They don’t spend _all_ their time having sex, Henry. We’ve just been unlucky.”

“Data says they do. Three times does not a coincidence make. And anyway, you don’t believe in coincidences.”

The thought of Adam and Ronan having sex made Gansey feel vaguely uncomfortable, for a reason he couldn’t quite pin down. It certainly wasn’t anything to do with the genre - having spent most of a year having regular sex with both his girlfriend and their boyfriend, Gansey couldn’t really judge - but more the fact that it was _Ronan_. And _Adam_. They were like - his _children_. Okay, that was weird, scratch that last.

Blue said, “Gansey, are you internally monologuing? You’re wearing your internal monologue face.”

“Shut up,” said Gansey, and took the turn down the lane that led to the Barns.

It was late now, the sun gradually setting over the proud roof of the farmhouse, caressing the fields like a mother, kissing them goodnight. As with many things in his life, Gansey was never sure whether the breathtaking beauty of the Barns was magic, or simply nature blessing a place that had seen so much violence. It seemed to say, that’s enough now. Sleep easy. There was a buttery light coming from the porch. Gansey swung into the driveway with aplomb. He could see Henry’s face creasing up in the wing mirror, a deep yawn, a stretch of his slim shoulders. He was almost a head taller than Gansey and struggled to keep his limbs contained in the backseat, but Blue was quick to call shotgun and Henry could never argue with her. He rubbed his eyes with a clenched fist.

“We should've called ahead,” Blue winced. Gansey killed the mythical engine.

“Do you want me to call now?”

“No, Gansey, I do not.” She rolled her eyes expressively and opened the side door. It took a hop to get her down safely, her huge combat boots crunching on the tarmac. He could hear her determined stride towards the door: even in sound she had more presence for him than almost anyone else in the world.

“We’ll get the bags then!” Henry yelled after her. Gansey popped the trunk, smiling at the familiar creak.

“I don't know why you're still surprised, old man,” Gansey shrugged. He heaved Blue’s rucksack onto his shoulder just as the door opened. He knew it was Adam because of the volume of Blue’s delight. Henry was still grumbling good naturedly. He never did like long drives and he stretched out his arms with a wince, cracking his shoulders. He brushed against Gansey’s shoulder and the gesture was purposeful enough that Gansey flushed and then sighed at himself.

“Hurry up!” Blue yelled from the doorway. “They have food!”

“Food,” Henry said, longingly. Lunch had been a very long time ago. “Food, Gansey.”

“Suitcases, then food.”

 

The Henrietta Hotel - cracked neon sign, receptionist who was furious to be disturbed, ugly carpet - at least had a hot shower, and Neil found himself almost whistling as they took the stairs up to their room. They only had a rucksack between them; Andrew hadn’t really given him early warning before his freak out, but Neil was used to travelling light. They were in room 83.

“Don’t look now,” Andrew said, “but I think there’s a minibar.”

“Probably hasn’t been restocked since 1982,” Neil replied cheerfully, throwing the bag at the double bed. Andrew was hovering in that way that nudged at Neil’s subconscious; if he’d been a lesser man he would’ve been wringing his hands. This hovering was probably as close as Neil would get to an apology or explanation, this compact anxiety, the humming of stress, and Neil cautiously pressed his mouth to the underside of Andrew’s jaw on the way to the bathroom and felt the tide recede a little. “Shotgun the shower.”

“Asshole,” Andrew said, and it was more comfortable now. He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes a deep dusky blue, and his hands were stained with engine oil. He sat himself on the edge of the mattress and scanned the room; Neil left him there to take stock and mark out the exits, setting the shower – which was, thank God, decent – to warm up. He gratefully stripped, leaving his filthy clothes in a pile on the tiles, avoided looking in the mirror, and stepped under the spray.

His shoulders were tight – it was three days without the gym – and the scars on his skin felt like they were stretched taught; Neil watched the dust and dirt swirl away down the drain and thought about Court, about Kevin and about Andrew and that odd wild fear he’d had in his eyes after the phone call. Neil understood that fear. It was the sense of being tethered, of someone driving a tent pole right through your foot, _you’re here now, no escape_. Andrew was still not used to the invasive nature of the press, who sometimes called his brother a murderer still and speculated on what the dead man, whose name was never mentioned in their house, had been to the Minyards. The concept of Court, of the crowds and flashing photographers and always, always eyes on them – it had made him cut his ties, just for a few days. Neil was just overwhelmingly touched that he had been brought along for the ride.

Andrew backed him up against the cold tiles, pushing him out of the spray; it was both affectionate and selfish. Neil blinked water out of his eyes and said, “ _hey_ ,” mildly. “Wait your turn.”

“I smell like diesel,” Andrew said shortly, and kissed him. His hair was a dark dusky blond under the spray; Neil shuddered. “Are you cold?” Andrew asked, reaching for the tap. Neil shook his head.

“Not cold,” he said.

 

“You’ll never guess who we met on the way here,” Henry said cheerily at dinner, as soon as it was humanely possible.

“Oh, let me guess,” said Adam, who was, if possible, looking even better after a year at MIT, brown and healthy and lounging back in his chair like it was his home, which it was. “Some sort of magical entity.”

“Jormundgandr?” Ronan suggested, through a mouthful of mashed potatos.

“The Seelie Court?”

“Another ghost?”

“Alright, smartasses,” Henry said, sulking a little. He hesitated, sidetracked. “Do you really think Jormundgandr exists?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Ronan said, and then winked, not very reassuringly. Gansey decided it was time he stepped in, because Blue was just watching with a maniacal grin on her face.

“We bumped into some sports stars,” he said, placatingly. “And I don’t think Norse mythology is real, if we can truly define real.” He frowned. “I mean, what does ‘real’ mean, in our experience? Was Cabeswater ‘real,’ if such a term can be applied to a forest which originated within someone’s mind – I’m not suggesting it was a hallucination, of course, but it could, perhaps, be considered –”

“They were _Exy_ stars,” Henry interrupted hurriedly. “Neil Josten and Andrew Minyard. No? Anyone?”

“Is Minyard the short, scary one?” Adam asked, curiously. “They were from Palmetto, weren’t they? My roommate last year had college Exy on all the fucking time.”

“He was very short,” Gansey said, distantly. “I really think we should consider whether reality is something that we can define ourselves within.”

“I don’t,” Ronan said. “Ice cream?”

“Please,” said Blue.

 

Later, full of ice cream and with a glass of wine in hand, Henry tried again. It was always impossible to keep his friends on topic; Gansey felt bad for him. “We really did see Andrew Minyard and Neil Josten. They were out of gas.”

Adam was half asleep on Ronan’s lap, Ronan’s hand entwined in his hair; Ronan sent Henry an evil look and gestured to keep his voice down. Henry said, “sorry,” more hushed. “But we’re having lunch with them tomorrow.”

Blue said, through a yawn, “I feel like I should be studying. I don’t know anything about Exy.”

“It’s wonderful,” Henry said, enthused. His eyes were bright; Gansey smiled at the sight of him. “It’s like lacrosse but more violent. You’d like it, Lynch.”

“Because of the complex rules and ugly uniforms?”

“Because of the violence.”

Ronan grinned, sharp. “I’ll look into it.”

“They managed to get the Palmetto Foxes to the top of the League through sheer force of will,” Henry said. “Their last match against the Ravens was _brutal_ , you must’ve heard about it – it was three years ago now but it was big news, someone broke their arm and everything.”

“Didn’t someone try and kill themselves?” Adam said sleepily, struggling upright. Ronan shot daggers at Henry, who tried to look innocent; Adam waved a hand at him. “No, I wasn’t asleep.” His eyes said otherwise.

“Someone succeeded,” Henry said, ghoulishly. “The captain of the Ravens. Couldn’t take the defeat.”

“Zoinks,” said Blue, without apparent irony. The wine had brought a flushed sense to her; Gansey wanted to kiss her. He could do that now. It was nights like these that he loved the most, when the strange feeling of pressure in his mind – the storm of two lived lives – trickled into background noise, when his friends were soft and close around him and everything moved at a steady place forward: Ronan, with his hair growing out in soft curls and his house regained and Opal, and Adam, his face rounded, his shoulders relaxed, his grades high and the lightness of being loved upon him; Henry, who knew what made Gansey tick, and Blue, Blue. He didn’t know how to articulate the feeling – words failed him only, it seemed, when it came to them – so instead he just took Blue’s hand, and she squeezed back.

“Sport is no joke,” Henry said, seriously. Gansey laughed.

“Not to you, maybe,” he said. “Personally I’ve always found Exy ridiculous.”

“I’ve always found you ridiculous,” Henry sniffed.

“Liar,” chorused Blue, Adam, and Ronan.

“Liar,” Gansey said softly.


	3. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Blue,” she grinned. “Harder to remember than Neil. Where’s your shadow?” 
> 
> “Andrew?” Neil blinked. He didn’t think Andrew would appreciate being called Neil’s shadow. His bodyguard, maybe. Most of the time it felt like the other way around, as if Neil wouldn’t exist if there wasn’t some sort of light shining on Andrew first. 
> 
> “6am doesn’t agree with him.” 
> 
> “Guess he’s in the wrong profession.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! IT'S HERE! and likely very disappointing. I did warn you this doesn't have a plot and never will have one. rambling character studies are my only jam.

They woke up early, Exy-practice time. Andrew was lying with his eyes open, gazing at the mottled ceiling, when Neil rolled over with no little caution to see how he was; the violence with which Andrew woke was directly proportionate to his mental health, so he was being sensible. Andrew turned his eyes to Neil without moving his head. “I hate this,” he said.

Neil struggled upright. He had the beginnings of a headache and the sunlight bleeding through the cheap curtains didn’t help matters much. He said, “I’ll text Kevin and tell him you’re into his routine.”

Andrew said: “do that and die.”

Neil laughed, just lightly, in that way Andrew hated, because being laughed at properly undermined any aura of threat he thought he had, and swung himself out of bed. Their emergency Moriyama rucksack was tucked in the corner. The emptiness of the hotel room was achingly familiar to Neil - he felt like he could reopen his eyes and find his mother, rubber gloves and antiseptic, wiping down all the surfaces. He dug out his gym shorts. “I’m going for a run,” he said, changing, without looking at the bed. He tied a red bandana around his forehead to keep his hair out of his eyes. “Coming?”

“I’d rather die,” said Andrew, predictably.  He had thrown an arm over his eyes, a dramatic statue in repose.

“Alright,” Neil shrugged, repressing a smile. “Order me breakfast.”

Andrew rolled over, every muscle petulant with it, with this being a 6am wake up, with the knowledge that he was stuck in the Exy routine, with the morning sleepy affection he always felt for Neil, and said, “shan’t,” and Neil pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder, reckless.

It was hot outside already. The air was sticky with the promise of more sunshine; Neil waited until he was out of the hotel parking lot and onto the streets proper before he broke into a jog, waiting for his sleep-stiffened muscles to warm up, to react. The town wasn’t large, so he didn’t bother to pay attention to much of his surroundings when he sped up, relishing the stretch. He liked to run in new places, just a little faster than he really ought; he liked not knowing where he was at 4am, bundled up in Andrew’s hoodie and cursing his chosen career, his life, Kevin Day, and everything else. This was very different; this was nice, the sunshine and the heat, far away from Court, from the Moriyamas, with Andrew in bed waiting for him to get back.

They would need to be in Columbia by tomorrow evening; Lionel Carrera, the US coach, wouldn’t wait for Andrew forever. Life moved without them, something that Neil found more terrifying, even, than the thought that, if Andrew accepted, they’d be playing on the same team for the first time since the Foxes. He wondered if he was out of shape - the thought of Andrew in goal behind him made him shiver. But for now he was happy to run until he had to stop, hands braced on his knees, somewhere down a residential street, white houses, blue trim. He caught his breath and wished he’d thought to bring water.

“Hello.”

Neil jumped about three feet into the air. When he comes back down to earth the girl from the orange car was laughing at him, a loud peal that demanded to be heard. “Sorry,” she said, “are you okay?”

“Fine,” Neil said, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’m fine.” He caught his breath. The girl’s hair was up around her face in a cloud, if clouds weren’t delicate; she gestured to a house further down the road.

“I live here.”

“Oh,” said Neil. He felt an absurd desire to apologise, as if he’d trespassed. He couldn’t remember her name; he said, “I’m sorry, I -”

“Blue,” she grinned. “Harder to remember than Neil. Where’s your shadow?”

“Andrew?” Neil blinked. He didn’t think Andrew would appreciate being called Neil’s shadow. His bodyguard, maybe. Most of the time it felt like the other way around, as if Neil wouldn’t exist if there wasn’t some sort of light shining on Andrew first. “6am doesn’t agree with him.”

“Guess he’s in the wrong profession.”

Blue, which sounded like a name that should be chosen, rather than gifted (Neil knew all about those), looked tired. Neil caught his breath for another long moment, aware that he was sweaty and gross, but she didn’t look like she minded. “I haven’t been home for a long time,” she said, unprompted. “I thought I’d do some sightseeing. I don’t like Henrietta during the day; it’s best at this time, when everyone’s still inside.”

Neil grunted. He got that. “How was it?” he asked. “Being a tourist?” He didn’t have a home town, but he thought that maybe he would feel the same way about Palmetto, if he went back now. He hadn’t set foot in the college since he’d graduated, three years previously. A part of him had assumed that it’d still be identical, that the tower would be the same, that Alison would be sprawled out on the couch, Kevin sat on the counter, cross-legged; Andrew by the freezer, fingertips cold from the ice cream scoop. He knew that was wrong, and yet.

“Alright,” Blue said, tiredly. “Not the same. There are huge parts missing.” She sounded literal. Neil got that, too. “Do you want a glass of water?”

“Oh,” he said. He repressed that instinct, still so viscerally present, to say no - he didn’t know her or her house, nor what could be waiting for him inside - and reminded himself that he’d been safe for a long, long time now. Safe being a relative term, Moriyamas excluded. “Uh, sure, if we’re not gonna wake anyone up.”

“It’s fine.”

They walked, side by side, down the sticky suburban street. There was a shout of laughter from a back garden; kids were getting up, getting ready for school. For some reason that reminded Neil painfully of Nathaniel, Riko, Kevin, three iterations of three boys who didn’t exist anymore, not really. Nights spent together before school were the rarest of treats; he remembered the excitement of a new morning routine, the joy of feeling innocently out of place. Blue unlocked the door to 300 Fox Way.

“Come through to the kitchen,” she said, voice low, “I’ll fix you something.”

“Good old Southern hospitality,” Neil said, quietly, toeing off his trainers; Blue laughed under her breath.

“Oh, man,” she said, “not me. I wanna kick you out for even saying that.”

“No cowboy hats?”

She rolled her eyes at him, looking startlingly like Renee. “Wrong state, dude.”

“Dude,” he mimicked her, drawling.

The kitchen was white and fresh-smelling; he pressed the glass of water to his temple gratefully, then to the pulse points at the insides of his wrists, and began to feel himself cool. His heartrate was already back to resting and he felt stretched out and pleased; he texted Andrew: **been adopted by the color girl** , and hoped Andrew would know what he meant - _knew_ Andrew would know what he meant - and leant against the sink and watched Blue as she set about making breakfast. She did so in silence, which he liked. She raised an eyebrow at him and he shook his head, no. “I should be getting back. But we have lunch booked, don’t forget.”

She laughed, soft. “As if I could,” she said. “Henry’s as serious about it as if it were his wedding. The coffee shop is the altar.”

“Coffee?” Neil said, faux-surprised. “Not pizza? I thought Nino’s was the best thing about this place - or that’s what the receptionist told Andrew.”

Blue smiled over her bowl of cereal. “Nino’s isn’t open today,” she said. “That was one of my tourist stops. I worked there at school.” And then: “Hi, mom.”

For some reason, Neil hadn’t considered that this would be Blue’s parents’ house. Parents had been such an absence in the life of everyone he’d met since he was in high school himself, he’d nearly forgotten they existed, in their mundane, morning form like this, scarf over her hair and coffee cup in hand, disapproving expression.

“Oh, Blue,” said Blue’s mom. “Not _another_ boy. You know what happened last time you brought one home. My blood pressure can’t take it.”

Blue looked horribly scandalised. “ _Mom!_ ” she exclaimed, as Neil, laughed, the sound ringing out real and true.

 

 

Blue thought that five years ago Ronan would have taken to Andrew Minyard, would have followed him, would have enjoyed that strange aura of threat that clung to him – Ronan of their final year of high school, when he’d been on the verge of dropping out of Aglionby but before he’d actually done it, a strung out mess of tense shoulders, his hands like claws, his head shaved in a shout of defiance. Ronan now, though, was a different matter.

Adam had positioned himself between Ronan and Andrew within minutes of meeting them, instinctive. Blue felt rather that her two friends had switched personalities, like she was seeing double; Adam had in his expression, in the slim lines of his neck, his arms, a restraint not unlike a person lying in wait; Ronan was all soft, like wool. Henry, next to Blue at the low slung coffee table, was leaning forward, his dark head opposite Josten’s auburn one, practically vibrating with joy - it was almost enough to make Blue forgive Minyard for turning Adam into something he was not.

“I was so impressed when you made Court,” Henry said, ignoring Gansey, who was attempting to hand him his frappe. “One of the youngest players ever, other than Day, of course.” He was saying this for their benefit, but it made no sense to Blue. She said:

“I’m assuming Court is important.”

“Only if you care about sport,” said Minyard, through a tight expression. Adam cast him a look of vague interest.

“It’s the national team,” Henry said to her, rolling his dark eyes expressively; Blue was sure she’d never seen his features still. He was lit up with pixie-like glee. “Not every country has a team; it’s usually Japan and the US in the final, but the games are _brutal_.” He glanced at Josten, as if for approval. He’d used that word the previous evening too – brutal. There was something visceral about it, like Exy wasn’t just a game. Josten nodded.

“They can be, sometimes,” he said. Minyard snorted, quietly, into his coffee, and Josten corrected himself: “Ok, all the time. It’s fun though.” He was relaxed when talking about Exy – less relaxed when ordering a coffee for himself. Blue was watching his scars move when he talked, the great burns across his face, distorting its shape, drawing the eye irresistibly like a flashing neon light. Maura would have said that they showed he was a survivor; Calla would have said that he was dangerous, because anyone who could survive that would have to be. Orla would’ve hit on him. Minyard, on the other hand, reminded Blue a little bit of the Grey Man, and a little bit of Cabeswater too. Adam was angled away from him, his legs crossed, towards Ronan, but Blue knew he was paying attention, and she was too. They made eye contact, a flash of a second.

“It does seem as though there are an inordinate amount of injuries,” Gansey said, sitting gracefully down next to Blue. She didn’t need to look at him to know he was wearing his _let’s discuss statistics_ face, the one that made people bristle. “Considering the size of the sport at the moment, the number of games, the tiny league.” Groups of three, classic oration, he was such an asshole, he had perfect rhetoric even in his sleep, even in a coffee shop.

“It’s the racquets,” Josten said, wrly. “They’re heavy.”

Minyard laughed again. Blue got the sense that he rarely did; this time, Adam looked at him with real interest. Ronan said, “sounds like my kind of sport.”

“It’d only be your kind of sport if you were playing it,” Adam said. “Since when have you ever sat through a match of _anything_?”

“I watched the Superbowl with you,” Ronan said, with a slight whine to his tone.

“No, you _complained_ the whole way through the Superbowl with me.”

Blue, who didn’t like sport – except tennis, which, to Ronan’s horror, she was quite good at – snickered into her chai tea. Adam rolled his eyes massively and changed the subject, turning to Minyard. “What brought you to Henrietta?” he asked. “It’s hardly an Exy hotspot.”

“Or an anything hotspot,” Ronan said, under his breath. Gansey looked a little offended, as if they had just slighted an old family friend of his, or perhaps a deceased relative. Minyard was studying his nails, something he did rather often; everything about him screamed at Adam not to talk to him, but Adam’s gaze, as Blue knew very well, was difficult to ignore.

Eventually, he said, “it wasn’t our intention.”

Josten clarified, “we ran out of gas.”

“Where were you headed?” Adam asked.

Blue had an odd feeling that she was witnessing some sort of test. Neil seemed to know it too; he blinked slowly. She recognised that deliberate expression from this morning, when she’d invited him in for water. “Nowhere,” he said. “We were just driving.”

“Henrietta is the kind of place people end up,” Gansey shrugged. He was warm next to Blue; she always felt, next to him, that her head would be best placed on his shoulder. He was just that kind of size and shape.

There was a feeling of magic around the two Exy players. Blue didn’t think it was magic that they understood – magic like Ronan was magic, like Adam, who could still make plants grow around him like family – but more magic like Gansey was magic, like they had lived many lives. When Minyard looked at her and she looked back there was that sensation of falling. Neil Josten said, “Palmetto was like that too. Liminal space.”

“Liminal space,” Minyard repeated, dismissively. “Long word.”

“Actually,” said Gansey, “it’s a pretty average length. I wonder if there are any ley lines in Palmetto.”

Henry did not look like this conversation was going the way he had intended, and he dragged them back to the topic of sport with some difficulty.

 

 

Afterwards, the short girl led them towards where the cars were parked, the hideous Fox orange Camaro, the slim black Maserati, and Neil checked Andrew over with small flicks of his eyes. He seemed more relaxed than Neil had expected; not perfectly, of course, but as much as was to be expected, around strangers. That morning they’d walked to buy some groceries, just basics, coffee and milk and bread for the small toaster in their room that looked vaguely lethal, and Andrew had let Neil take his hand when they were in the dairy aisle, something that was fucking risky in Virginia. In front of them, Adam and Ronan were holding hands, but then again, they walked around Henrietta like they owned the place, like the shops and businesses were open for their purposes, and theirs only.

Neil brushed his fingers over Andrew’s bare forearm, _you alright?_ Andrew quirked one blond eyebrow: _fine, you weirdo_. Neil snorted.

The group kept moving in and out of itself, like a choreographed dance; one moment Adam Parrish was in step with Neil, his slow Southern drawl feeling as invasive as any Valley Girl chant, and the next he was gone and replaced by Blue, whose step was light and cheerful on the tarmac; and then Andrew was back, with a snide, sharp comment, before Henry claimed him again with insistent Exy questions that Andrew pretended to hate but answered anyway. As they were passing the closed pizza parlour, Ronan, who was sharp and slim and had an odd tattoo curling protectively over the nape of his neck, cut Neil off at the pass, walking backwards in front of him.

“Why did you really come here?” he asked.

He spoke like he had any aggression to speak of, but the aggression was out of habit rather than any real wish for confrontation, and his posture was open and relaxed. He was wearing expensive jeans and a ripped t-shirt, loose around the collarbone. His strong features were softened by a mess of curly dark hair. “It wasn’t intentional,” Neil said.

“That wasn’t what I asked.” Ronan was grinning, just a bit. “You can’t bullshit a professional bullshitter.”

Neil snorted. He wanted to say: _watch me_. Instead he said, “we really did run out of gas.” He paused. “But it was sort of on purpose. We wanted to drive.”

Ronan’s eyes were a clear amber. He accepted Neil’s statement with shocking ease. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “I get that.” And he did.

 

 

That night, Henry Cheng rolled over in Ronan and Adam’s large guest bed; Blue, dozing, shifted easily so she was pressed along his back like a comma, curled into his spine. Gansey kept his eyes determinedly closed. “Third,” he said.

“No,” said Gansey, his eyes still shut. Henry could see the veins in his eyelids, the skin there thin and fragile; his cheekbones caught the moonlight, or the moonlight caught them. One never knew with Gansey. “Henry, shut up. I love you, but shut up.”

“Aw,” Henry said, momentarily diverted, because Gansey rarely said such things. “I’m touched.” And then: “Third.”

Gansey opened one eye. “What,” he snapped, somewhat harshly, in Henry’s opinion. It was, after all, barely three, and they were all slightly tipsy. It wasn’t his fault that Gansey passed out after anything even remotely physical. He smiled his best, winning smile.

“Do you think,” he said, conversationally, propping himself up on his forearm, “Andrew Minyard is hot?”

Gansey groaned, deep in his chest, long suffering. Incredibly pointedly, he rolled over too, until his broad-shoulders were presented to Henry in an incredibly rude manner. Blue laughed, her breath warm against the back of Henry’s neck. “Andrew Minyard could kill you and I would laugh,” Gansey muttered into his pillow. “Now go to _sleep_ , Cheng.”

Grinning, Henry did so.

**Author's Note:**

> come and talk to me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/_paviikovsky) or yell at me on [tumblr](http://paviikovsky.tumblr.com)!


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